You wouldn't understand the struggle. Because as much as you try to hide it, you don't care. You don't know what I'm going through, and how stupidly hard it is to have all of this weight on my shoulders. And how all you do is add unnecessary weight. You wouldn't be capable of comprehending what goes through my mind. The suicidal thoughts, the obsessive compulsiveness of my actions, the need to harm myself, the hate for the skin I live in, the need to throw up after stuffing myself full, the incapability of just being normal. No. You wouldn't understand what it's like to have to deal with you. And as hard as I try to get away from you. You find me and destroy all the walls that I've built up and break me down even more. The words you say. Laced in hate and disappointment. Am I just not good enough? Mom? Just please tell why I can't do anything right. And why all I feel toward you is pity. Pity for the sad excuse of a mother you are. Because even when you're there, you are not. And honestly, J like it better when you casted me away and didn't give a ****.